Kill All the Judges

by William Deverell

  Arthur raised his hands in mock surrender, took a deep breath: “Okay, let’s go about this another way. See that boy out there? That’s my grandson, he’s fourteen. Computers are his passion–as I’m sure they were for both of you at his age. My wife, as you obviously know, is a candidate in next week’s federal byelection. She knew nothing about this, nor did I. Nick went tearing off on a secret frolic for which he meant no harm. He doesn’t even live here but in Australia with his mother, my daughter, and he’s on the cusp of returning there from an extended summer vacation. He’s already missed school opening.”

  They nodded without expression. “What he did was out of affection for my wife, not malice. Maybe out of a rebellious spirit, but we were all rebellious at that age, weren’t we? I don’t have to tell you he can’t be brought before the adult courts or that your mischief charge will be embarrassingly difficult to prove. I don’t have to tell you that the Charter of Rights permits–indeed exalts–free political speech, and I don’t have to tell you that the RCMP won’t want to find itself in the inglorious position of seeming to take sides in an election campaign.”

  A blast of wind rattled the windows. The snow came in whirling gusts, no longer melting but caking the roofs of outbuildings, driveways, vehicles. The two officers were staring at each other again, neither daring to be the first to speak. Finally, Matthew said, “Wow, look at that snow. Guess there’ll be a lot of cars scrambling to get off the island.”

  Eloise nodded, handed back the sweater, and rose to lead her partner to the door. “We’d better not miss that old tub of a ferry.” For Arthur, a little wink, like a kiss.

  It was an hour later, after lines had been drained and animals sheltered, that Arthur came into Nick’s room and caught him teary-eyed on the bed, issuing directives to his humming computer.

  “Everything erased?” Arthur sat down with him, propping himself up with a pillow.

  “I’m doing a deep dig, cleaning out the register.”

  His dad had already talked to him, severe but sincere. Arthur suspected he was suppressing pride in his boy. And in truth it was quite a feat, despite the close call. One could only pray that the repercussions to Margaret’s campaign would dissipate.

  “Other officers might have mindlessly followed through. We were lucky.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been so stupid.”

  “You’re too bright for your own good. That’s a blessing, you’ll need to scramble to pick up a few weeks of school.”

  Nick wiped an eye, shut down his computer. “It wasn’t real hard to hack in to them. It was sort of an experiment, figuring out how spammers beat the system. I hate spam.”

  “Well, you’ll never want for a job in cyberspace. Looking forward to getting back?”

  “Yeah, but I like it here. I didn’t at first. I guess I’ve been a real headache.”

  “We’ll always welcome you back.”

  A smile came out of nowhere. “Lavinia told me the chicken fuckers were here.”

  All day, Arthur had fought off calling Margaret, not wanting to alarm her, to tell her about Nick’s escapade–it would be too distracting, could put her off her game in the campaign’s critical final days. But he decided to touch base after hearing on the news that the latest poll had her only a whisker behind O’Malley, two points.

  He caught her canvassing in Porcupine Bog, so hoarse as to be barely audible.

  “Arthur, I’d like you to come to the last all-candidates.” On Saltspring Island, Saturday afternoon, half past one.

  “I thought I made you nervous.”

  “I’m beyond nervous.” He barely made out the next phrase: “I need you.”

  That caused a welling of feelings that for some foolish reason he couldn’t translate into words. She needed him. The political recluse had been elevated several feet above the level of excess baggage. “Of course I’ll be there.”

  He told her he’d stopped by the school, the advance poll, and marked a big fat X for a soon-to-be-sitting member of the House of Commons. He wanted to discuss the LeGrand affidavit with her, but she was being greeted by a voter. He shouted: “On to Ottawa.” If it comes to pass, he’ll tough it out, an act of love.

  She had passed the phone to Eric Schultz. “Christ, I’m freezing out here. How is it your way?”

  “We’re battening down.”

  “This blow could help. Our vote’s firm, we’ll pull out ninety-five per cent. Socialist hotbed here in Porky Bog, but they’re looking over our merchandise, they may be ready to board the bus. O’Malley is holding at thirty-five, Blake thirty-three, the rest fighting for scraps. That spam attack bled a lot of vote away, probably enough to…”

  “The bleeding has stopped.”

  “How did you hear?”

  “There was a police investigation, Eric. Someone filed an official complaint.”

  “Never thought they’d carry through. I bitched, I hollered. Find some kind of charge, I said, shut down that operation.”

  Arthur was speechless.

  “You still there, Arthur?”

  It was Schultz’s turn to be at a loss when Arthur filled him in. Finally: “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I didn’t tell Margaret.”

  “Best that we do. Don’t want her boobytrapped by some clever reporter.” Soft profanities, he was flustered. “Any chance this will get a proper burial?”

  “I’m hoping so, but it’s probably all over Garibaldi.”

  “Christ.”

  “That’s the bad news.”

  “There’s better?”

  “Eric, I’ll ask you to deliberate long and carefully on this, but we now have a strong intimation of a corrupt payment to the office of the late justice minister.”

  His recital of LeGrand’s affidavit produced a long whistle. “That clinches it. Keep this under your hat–it’ll come out in Question Period tomorrow that the administrator of Boynton’s estate has uncovered an account worth four million and change, untouched, that would normally devolve to his survivors. What’s the best way to handle this? Tomorrow’s Friday, a bad media day. Just before the election is best, Monday. Has to be released carefully, shouldn’t come from us.”

  “It may be too late already.” Arthur told him how he’d lost a free speech debate with Nelson Forbish. He got a laugh, Schultz in a spirited mood now.

  “Better tell Mr. Forbish to keep mum.”

  “Not to worry, the Bleat comes out mid-week.” Nelson had been known to put out special editions, single pages emblazoned “Extra!” but this weather promised to thwart such a plan.

  The storm accelerated into the evening, yet another blizzard on the mild Pacific coast, weather patterns changing, hotter summers, capricious winters. Outside, the sound of a tree cracking under the weight, a leaner, an electric pop as a breaker snapped. Lights out.

  Arthur fumbled his way to the candle bin, arrayed several on the dining room table, threw more logs on the fire. The Nicks and the woofers were out in that whirling snow, by the brick barbecue, preparing to grill steaks. They seemed content, in parkas and toques, laughing in the dusky light, tossing snowballs.

  The phone lines were still open, so Arthur dialed Wentworth, who must be worried his general will be trapped here, Napoleon on the isle of Elba.

  “I’m afraid we may be forced into a slight change of plan, Wentworth.”

  Just silence but for the sound of a gulp.

  “Not sure I’ll be able to fly in early tomorrow, the weather may not permit. I’ll try for the ferry.”

  “That doesn’t get here till noon.”

  “Right, so I’m going to ask you to cross-examine the maid and the guard. I think you’re ready for that, and I can’t comprehend how I could do a better job. Anyway, Kroop may need another day to settle his insides. If not, find a way to spin things out until I get there. I’m sure you’ll do a rip-snorting job.”

  “Two witnesses aren’t going to fill the morning.”

  “Oh, raise some argument or other
, something that will get the old boy going. If nothing else works, feign illness.”

  “I am ill.”

  “I have complete faith in you, Wentworth. You’ve done admirably. Admirably.”

  “Are you sure, Arthur, because…”

  “Any problems, I’m always right by the phone.”

  Arthur made tea and sat down with Virgil’s great and ancient tome, and began to read aloud by the flickering light. “It is sweet to let the mind bend on occasion.”

  But he kept wandering back to his trial, fussing over it, even though there wasn’t much he could do to ready himself for the final, vital witnesses.

  One can’t rehearse for Florenza LeGrand; it would be like rehearsing for the unknown. He wondered about her, her hints of narcissism, sociopathy. Did this daughter of a Thai concubine suspect her provenance? Was that at the root of her rebellion, a suppressed fury at her father’s lies? A rebellion intensified by an artfully arranged marriage to a possessive dilettante? And thus a hick from the sticks became a murder weapon. But Arthur didn’t want to believe Cud was a murderer…Or did he?

  He was nagged by ignoble suspicions that none of his battery of suspects was guilty, that Cud actually did do the deed, recklessly, drunkenly, or deliberately, propelled by base motive, lust, greed, twisted notions of honour and deliverance. Help me escape. Had he answered Florenza’s call while nearly senseless with drink?

  And Astrid Leich, well, she’ll probably identify Cud, and Arthur will have to loosen the clasps and buckles of her finger-pointing confidence. Such cross-examinations are best done raw, but he should devise tactics for Kroop, who will break all records for churlishness as the trial drags on through Monday, as he misses his day of glory.

  Arthur hadn’t told Wentworth that April Fan Wu was still in town, that he’d granted her absolution as part of his deal with Gib Davidson, but these matters were too tricky to be canvassed by phone. As was the matter of loosely wrapped Brian Pomeroy, from whom getting information was like prying bricks from a wall. What will the jury make of his outlandish visit to the LeGrand estate? They’ll likely decide he was bonkers, the right conclusion.

  Let it go. Seek solace in the Aeneid. The night had come, and weary in every land, men’s bodies took the boon of blissful sleep…Soon he nodded off.

  He awoke at daybreak, aroused by a winter wren fluttering about the bedroom, clawing at the window. He opened it wide to a blast of frigid air, and while waiting for the disoriented intruder to make its break, he jumped back into bed and worked at a turbulent dream set in a Roman arena. Familiar faces everywhere: LeGrand, Ebbe, Silent Shawn, and many more, a cast of thousands, all waiting for the lions to be loosed on Cud Brown. Arthur was disoriented–was this the right court, was he defending that frightened gladiator? Too late, a toga-swaddled jury roared their verdict. Vae victis! Woe to the vanquished! Then the roaring faded, and there was only the clicking of a keyboard, a madman in the throes of creation…

  The power was still out, so the day’s toilette included longjohns, ski socks, and a bulky country sweater. Downstairs, the Nicks were by a crackling fire. He thought to warm himself there but realized they were discussing family issues, so he pulled on his boots. Odd that twitchy-nosed Pamela had not joined her fiancé here–maybe they weren’t as serious about each other as Nicholas claimed. Arthur hadn’t mentioned the filched Fargo, not wanting them to feel badly about having been conned out of it.

  It remained very cold, but the wind had relented, and snow abated under a sullen sky. The pond would soon support a hockey team. A path of sorts had been tramped toward the woofer house, where he found Lavinia at a battery-powered radio, listening to the forecast: an Arctic front had settled in, a few more freezing nights expected. He called Syd-Air–they were vague about whether they’d be flying at all today. Wentworth was off-line, but Arthur left a message saying not to expect him early. The young man knew what to do.

  The nine o’clock news came on. Power outages, traffic tie-ups, accidents. But then, from “our political bureau,” came this: “Questions are being raised in Ottawa about an apparent gift of four million dollars from shipping magnate Donat LeGrand to the late Justice Rafael Whynet-Moir.” Embellishing this account were references to the timing of payments, half down and half after Florenza’s betrothal, an equivalent sum showing up–after Raffy was named to the bench–in Jack Boynton’s Nassau account.

  And who broke this story? Why, the editor of the Garibaldi Island Bleat, of course, who, determined to earn his pound of glory, had e-mailed his photos of the fax to multiple news agencies.

  What set Arthur worrying was that Wentworth was mentioned as its sender. “Mr. Chance could not be reached for comment.” No mention of senior counsel, though no doubt Charles Loobie and his cronies made efforts and drew blanks. Well, it’s out, the entire bribery scandal, and the chips will fall where they may. Many of these will fall on Arthur, who now must bear the brunt of Kroop’s wrath–the defence has contaminated radio-listening jurors.

  He was about to ring Wentworth again, but here was a bald-tired flatbed sliding and slipping up the driveway, weighted down for traction with a rusting engine block, a snowmobile, a beat-up generator, and Dog. Arthur almost slipped on an icy patch as he rushed out to collar the defalcator.

  “Heard you was here, and came right over,” Stoney said, directing Dog to lug the generator off the truck. “Let there be light. A special service for my most valued client.”

  Arthur folded his arms, glared, waiting for him to come up with an improbable excuse for the missing Fargo: I’m trying to solve a little drive-train problem. Or possibly: I traded her in for this here spiffy snowmobile. Most likely: She’s now officially an off-road vehicle. She went off the road and down Hemlock Hollow.

  Stoney had the brass to turn toward sea-bound Icarus, saluting it. “What think you, bwana, of this magnificent display of local art? You oughta thank Dog too; he lugged umpteen bags of cement down there, hammered up the forms when the tide was almost up to his nuts.”

  “Thank you, Dog,” Arthur said. “I know you’re not consciously involved in this caper with the Fargo.”

  From the cab of the truck, a strong smell of reefer, accounting for the slowness of Stoney’s reaction: “Now, this here generator rents out at only…Caper? Fargo? Am I being accused of something here?”

  “Your act of being vastly affronted doesn’t wash with me, Stoney. I want my truck.”

  “I am hurt, deeply hurt.” He ploughed off to the garage, cleared a snowdrift from the door, managed to wedge it open. There was the yellow Fargo, gleaming, it had been washed.

  “You mean this Fargo? The one I borrowed once to haul in the cement? The one me and Dog spent an hour washing?”

  It was only later, when Arthur realized he’d forgot to challenge Stoney over the chattel-mortgaged Chrysler, that he rued having let him soak him for the generator.

  A TRAGEDY OF JUSTICE

  Wentworth held fast to one of the westbound lanes on Sixth Avenue, the tires of his Outback 310 spitting slush on his pants and boots. He was cold, his patched sheepskin jacket bringing little comfort, his feet and ankles sopping. Mindless of the traffic he’d backed up, he was finally forced into six inches of snow by an impatient driver. He stopped, wiped his goggles. Don’t be a traffic fatality on this day of all days.

  His dreams of glory were to be tested by a live audience this morning. Wentworth Chance gets his turn to show his mettle in swordplay with the chief justice–assuming he’s good to go today. If he’s still ill, another recess, giving the boss time to get back and ruin Wentworth’s debut. But when weighed, his dreams were jokes, he was terrified of Kroop, terrified of screwing up–Arthur had better make it back, if not for Philomène and Rashid, then for Astrid Leich, next on deck. How long could he spin things out for?

  What was he supposed to do with the LeGrand affidavit? Why had the boss cancelled LeGrand’s subpoena? Also bugging him was that he blew yesterday’s interview with Cudworth, who’d bee
n a jerk, thinking he was wily, but just slippery, proposing unlikely scripts, none saleable. “I’ll chew on it, give you a fresh draft in la mañana,” he’d said as he walked to the door with a crooked back. “I got to get some painkiller.”

  The sidewalk had been cleared the next few blocks, so he risked a ticket, darting around pedestrians all the way to the Cambie Bridge, across it, then downhill to Gastown.

  A sign behind the bicycle rack read, “The Gastown Riot is closed until further notice.” A window cracked and taped. Inside, a custodian cleaning up, a guitar with a broken fretboard leaning against a broken chair, a bashed-in drum. Wentworth had worked in the office till ten last night, undisturbed. He’d even been able to take a nap, despite his fearful anticipation of this day.

  The staff hadn’t arrived yet, but Brovak was in the library, looking up law–a chore so rare that Wentworth gaped. Brovak was dressed in black, as if in mourning. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke, a stogie in the ashtray.

  “Hey, kid, what happens to an appeal when one of the judges is rendered combat ineffective?”

  “Like what, sick?”

  “Bertha Rudweiler has gone to a better world. Acute salmonellosis complicated by choking on her upwardly mobile stomach contents.”

  “Oh, my God.” Wentworth sat, feeling shaken, queasy. Another judge will die. Wentworth had read somewhere that mentally ill persons were often prescient. He shuddered. Another unnatural death of a judge unloved by the criminal bar. If the canard à l’orange had been poisoned, John Brovak was a likely suspect…

  “I’ve still got two live ones on the panel.”

  “They’ll have to start over. Section 13, Appeal Court Act.”

  “Dearie me, that’ll take a year to set up. Now my poor lads must be released on bail. I hear the Badger is off the endangered list, kid. Watch he doesn’t take you off at the knees; you’re high on his hit list. Hey, that Haley, man, she wouldn’t stop. Great view from her suite when you come up for air.”